


How to raise a demon and make it love you back.

by bookflea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), I Ship It, M/M, My First Fanfic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), What Have I Done, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookflea/pseuds/bookflea
Summary: It's a month since the (not)Apocalypse and there is something wrong with Crowley. Aziraphale decides he wants to get him a new plant to help him feel better, because the demon is refusing to talk to him about how he's feeling. It all kinda goes from there really.Wow, writing a summary is hard.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	How to raise a demon and make it love you back.

**Author's Note:**

> Prepare yourself for the customary self-absorbed author's note. Take a deep breath.
> 
> I have never written a fanfic before. I apologise in advance for the inelegant style of mushing my own frantic thought processes into coherent sentences. When people have read sections of this they have commented about the number dashes and brackets I use and for that I'm sorry. The problem I've had before with writing is that I struggle to streamline my thoughts. Anyone who knows me in real life knows this is also true with speech. The problem I have is that my brain is moving so quickly all the time I often miss out words or misspronunciate and trip myself up. My brain is quite literally sometimes going far too fast for my mouth. Therefore in a more formal format of written expression, I struggle to make my meanings clear without cluttering it with offshoots of thought and asides that, in a normal story, wouldn't make sense. With this story however, I found freedom. While I haven't read Good Omens (something I plan to rectify), I have seen the show and based a lot of the tone I was aiming for on that. The quirky and witty (for want of a better word) style of the story-telling meant that for the first time my thinking (and therefore writing) style would, rather than clutter the plot, potentially add to my story. 
> 
> I have, quite frankly, loved writing this. However, enjoyment is no promise of quality. If you are looking for meaningful metaphors and clever uses of literature devices, then please move on. My writing is fairly basic. There are no elaborate allusions or symbolism. There is me frantically scribbling, (and then later typing) trying to convey the thoughts in my head. It is also worth saying that I read this story in my usual thinking/reading pace, which is why the long rambling sentences (much like this one) make sense when I read it back to myself. So, if possible, read this faster than you ordinarily would, so you get the rushing I-have-too-much-to-say-but-I'm- just-gonna-write-it-all-down-and-read-it-quickly vibe I was going for. I feel like there is a lot of convoluted crackhead energy in this story. And you know what? I'm not sorry. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

It was no secret that Crowley liked plants. Ever since that first morning in the Garden of Eden, he'd been smitten with the green (and other assorted colours) things. Meaning that, some 6,000 years later, Crowley was what you might call a connoisseur of plant handling. Although, of course, such a title was far too ostentatious to ever be uttered around Crowley- if you valued your spleen- but it was a nice sentiment nevertheless. 

Aziraphale knew this. He had been present when Crowley had glared at the first Swiss cheese plant (reduced to a quivering mess, so much so that the soon-to-be characteristic holes appeared in the broad leaves as a result of it's desire to wither away under Crowley's gaze) and had witnessed him bully the newly-created-fresh-off-god's-production-line rosebush to adorn itself with thorns to 'teach those greedy humans a lesson if they try to pick it'. To think the story of Snow White would never have existed if not for the demon's inability to share his plants... Aziraphale didn't share Crowley's animosity towards the two humans in the Garden. But then again, why would he? He was an angel after all. 

Quite frankly, it amazed the angel that Crowley's passion for plants had endured the centuries, given that the demon was know for his reckless abandon and (apparent) disregard for any form of restriction- legal or moral. The only thing that could rival the plants was Crowley's Bentley. It was in near-pristine condition, despite the demon's tendency to mount pavements and weave between traffic (which would be driving at a perfectly respectable- and legal -speed) that he considered to be travelling far too slowly. Aziraphale was almost certain that he loved the car more than anything else on the planet, and it was definitely what he was most proud of. In his mind, such a strong emotional attachment to an object was almost unseemly- conveniently forgetting the fact that he would sulk for a fortnight if a human bought one of his precious books, God forbid (he secretly hoped She would) if it was a first edition. 

But anyway, I digress. 

The fact was that Aziraphale was worried about his friend. Post-(not)Apocalypse, Crowley was perpetually in one of two states. The first was a quiet, sombre mood, so sombre in fact that it was a miracle (metaphorically of course) if he got Crowley to look at him, let alone smile. The second was very much like his 'normal' (if such a word could ever be applied to the demon) Pre-(not)Apocalypse self, apart from being exceedingly sensitive to anything and everything the angel said. Inevitably, he would take offence in some remark and revert back to his silent, brooding state. This cycle would repeat again endlessly, the changes sometimes happening so quickly Aziraphale didn't know how to react fast enough. After a month of this, he decided that something needed to happen. 

He had tried to broach the subject multiple times, the first of which has been answered with a Look that only a demon with 6,000 years of working for hell could achieve. The second time had been met with a sigh and half-hearted "Fuck off, angel.", before receding back into his thoughts. 

Okay. So. If Crowley would not share his feelings with Aziraphale, might he do so with a plant? Yes, Crowley's usual interactions with his charges was certainly a one-way street, mainly comprised of threatening looks and whispered promises of retribution of any of them failed him- but it was more than the angel was getting to work with. It was, he reasoned, worth a try- it wasn't like he would make things worse.... right? 

Aziraphale just needed to find the appropriate plant. 

****************

Cowley's entrance into the bookshop was announced by a louder-than-necessary bang of the front door closing. Aziraphale, more than used to the demon's form of greetings, poked his head from behind a bookcase where he had been skulking trying to put off a customer from buying a book, using a combination of willpower and not-so-subtle glowering. 

"Hello, my dear!" Crowley grunted in response, slinking further into the bookshop and dropping into an armchair. The human took one look at Crowley's stormy face and scuttled from the shop.  
"Oh, thank you Crowley! I've been trying to get rid of that one for over an hour." Smiled Aziraphale, coming over to the demon. Crowley gave no indication of having heard his friend’s words, and instead put his feet up on a pile of precariously balanced tomes, crossing one ankle over the other. Aziraphale sniffed, prepared not to comment about the disregard for his books. That was, until he noticed what was on Crowley's feet. 

"What the Heavens are those?" He exclaimed, gesturing to the demons feet. Crowley gave him a long look over the tops of his customary sunglasses before resting his eyes on the red and black leather cowboy boots that rested on the angel's copy of Pride and Prejudice (first edition and signed).  
"What about them?"  
Aziraphale spluttered. "What do you mean, 'what about them?'". Crowley hated cowboy boots, hated them. He had even tried to convince a group of Texan cowboys in the late 19th Century not to start wearing them. It had been at a bar, late into the night (and drinks), and had resulted in Aziraphale having to drag Crowley away from the incensed locals. It had not been pretty. 

Crowley linked a shoulder in indifference, "Just trying something out.".  
Aziraphale didn't know what to say. Cowboy boots? If this wasn't a cry for help then he didn't know what one was. 

****************

The problem was that Aziraphale had no books about plants, flowers or anything vaguely botanical. While this may seem odd, considering that he had a book for nearly every conceivable subject- from sacred buddhist texts to books about the social interactions of cows (a surprisingly, or unsurpsringly depending on your opinion of cows, interesting read)- there was a simple reason. Aziraphale had Crowley. There was therefore no point in wasting valuable shelf space when Aziraphale could find all he needed within the demon's encyclopaedic knowledge. 

However, this was of little use to Aziraphale now. He couldn't question Crowley, for fear of raising his suspicions. No matter how much the angel would beat around the bush (pun intended), Crowley would always see through the pretence. No, the only thing to do was to find a book that could give him the information he needed. It is easy to question why Aziraphale simply didn't ask Google (of course other online search engines are available). The answer is that a paving slab was more functional as a computer than Aziraphale's. Weighing just as much as a paving slab, and twice as stubborn, it was unsuited to do anything more than make an occasional whirring sound and become worryingly hot. It was as old as the shop and would take until the next Apocalypse to get a satisfactory answer out of it. No, the angel would have to do things the 'old-fashioned way'.

It was for all these reasons that Aziraphale could be found a few days later standing outside a vintage bookshop in the dead of night. He had taken the bus- something he usually detested doing but, given the circumstances, he had had to swallow his pride. He had told Crowley that he fancied a quiet night by himself. The bus, when it had finally crawled to a stop in front of him, had been disconcertingly empty. Despite the lateness of the hour, it was unusual to see only the driver onboard, given that London Soho was always rumbling with life. Aziraphale found it eerie. The bus dragged itself from stop to stop, at last reaching the street he needed. He had managed to extract the information from one of his more persistent customers, thinking that they would know of other shops like his. He had not been disappointed. 

Now, standing in front of the book-cluttered window display, Aziraphale felt a surge of admiration for the shop owners. The thought of being able to willingly part with your books was incomprehensible to the angel. He considered his own "shop" to be less of a business and more like an extended personal bookshelf. Being as old as he as, he had collected a great number of books over the years and had needed a place to store them. Establishing a bookstore had seemed logical at the time. Not only did it give him ample room to store his books, it also gave him a purpose- frightening away customers. As selfish (and un-angelike) as this may be, he had come to consider his books as precious to him as one of his own limbs and wouldn't willingly part with any of them. There were, however, those awful (yet inevitable) days where his glares and hovering didn't work and he had to give away a little piece of himself. He always made a note of what he had 'lost', swearing to himself that one day he would be reunited with the book. 

A small Miracle unlocked the door and he slipped inside. The shop was cloaked in shadows; the silence heavy like a blanket. He dimly made out a sign above a section of shelves that read: 'Hobbies and Skills'. As good a place as any to start looking. It was hard to see the titles on the spines so he pulled out a book at random. He angled it so a ray of light from the streetlamp outside illuminated the cover: 'An idiot's guide to naturism'. That sounded promising. He let the book fall open in his hands. His eyes bulged and the book slipped from his fingers. You would think an angel, after over 6,000 years on Earth, would be accustomed to nudity. In the case of Aziraphale, you would think wrong. Aziraphale nudged the book with his shoe, as if afraid it would bite him. He felt like he had been branded. Tarnished. Sullied. (talk about angel superiority). Deciding that he was not in immediate danger of being attacked by the volume, he grabbed another spine from the shelf: 'How to Raise a Plant and Make it Love You Back'...Much better. 

Hastily flipping through the pages, he decided that this was enough for what he needed right now. If he needed anything more in depth he would simply come back in the daytime and actually ask someone, rather than play roulette in the dark again. 

As he reached the door he realised something- he needed to pay. How much do books cost? He had no idea. (Well, if he had actually stopped and thought he probably would have been able to come up with a perfectly respectable price- as he had to price his own books in his shop- but his mind was still in a frenzy from the naturist book so no such logical thought occurred. He simply wanted, more than ever, to escape back to his own store and his own, beloved books.) Okay, a trade then. What did he have to trade? Certainly not one of his books. A bottle of wine? That would do. After Miracling a bottle of 1959 Chateau Loubens Grand Cru Sainte Croix Du Mont (wine names simply roll off the tongue, don't they?), he slipped out of the store, locked the door, and hurried off into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Well done if you got this far!! You did it, yay! I'm surprised you survived the truck load of exposition to be honest. Feel free to comment and all that. Everything is appreciated :)
> 
> Also thank you to Madam Mortis for her being amazingly supportive about me writing my own fanfic. Her fic 'The Three Stages" inspired me so much. Please take a look at her work, its INCREDIBLE.


End file.
